


40-Love

by Dee_Moyza



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Tennis, Gen, Silly, Tennis AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 11:31:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21337546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Moyza/pseuds/Dee_Moyza
Summary: [Tennis Club AU]  A chance event and an impulsive decision lead Rinoa to the Balamb Gardens Tennis Club, where she meets a colorful group of people and learns to love the sport she was forced to practice as a young girl.  When, in advance of a meet against a tennis club from Galbadia, a string of injuries plagues the competitive squad, Rinoa steps in to help, and finds herself paired with a surly singles specialist who seems as though he'd rather be anywhere else than on the court with her.  Nevertheless, the two of them will need to learn to work together to compete against Galbadia, and maybe even learn to understand each other along the way.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	40-Love

_(Disclaimer: As a work of fanfiction, the creation of this piece does not imply ownership of the Final Fantasy franchise, its characters, or any affiliated intellectual property.)_

* * *

Balamb was a small town, at least compared to Deling City, but that only made it harder to meet new people. Rinoa walked down the street, a shopping bag in each hand, and watched her new neighbors go about their business, calling out to old acquaintances, stopping to converse. Everyone here seemed to know each other well, already, and nobody seemed particularly eager to expand their circle of friends.

It wasn't as if she hadn't tried. She was naturally friendly and outgoing, and she had introduced herself to most of the other tenants on her floor of her apartment building in the first day or two after she'd arrived. They'd all been polite, but not exactly welcoming. They regarded her warily, her crisp accent immediately marking her as a foreigner, her quick speech as a city dweller; no doubt, they were wondering whether she'd come as a vanguard of sorts, a scout for a company that would soon move in and disrupt their languorous Balamb lifestyle.

The Balambians she'd met were patient and laid-back, their accent soft and their speech slow, often letting the endings of words fade away gradually. By contrast, Rinoa was hurried and brusque, her voice all sharp edges, her personality sleek as polished steel, reflecting a vision of the townsfolk that they found none too appealing.

She couldn't help it; it was the way she was raised. She was willing to change it, too, if only she could get the chance. If only she could find a place to socialize with the locals on a regular basis, she was sure she could sand down her edges and be just as easy-going.

She walked along a sidewalk bordered by a tall hedge, listening to the sounds coming from the other side. Running, shouting, the distinctive pop of racket strings. Tennis courts. Memories of pleated skirts and old instructors in sweater vests rushed into her mind, and she smiled when she remembered how she had tormented them with her unconventional style.

_Two hands, Miss Caraway,_ they'd shout, demonstrating a textbook backhand stroke. _A lady always uses two hands!_

_For heaven's sake, don't jump so high! Let the ball bounce first. Mind your skirt, Miss Caraway!_

_Mind your skirt, mind your voice, mind your volley. Don't linger behind the service line, use the proper service motion. Two hands, Miss Caraway, don't give me that look, a lady doesn't abuse her racket, mind your tone, two hands, Miss Caraway! Two! Hands!_

She'd gone through instructors at an alarming pace, hoping her father might take the hint and allow her to stop her lessons. But he always managed to procure another instructor, each one sterner than the last, until the day she ran away, from her lessons, and her home.

She spent two years in Timber, living and working with a group of political activists, and assuming her late mother's maiden name to deter her father's attempts at locating her. Or, so she thought. It turned out that he had been keeping an eye on her via the soldiers stationed in Timber, and when a particularly daring kidnapping attempt against the Galbadian president went horribly awry, he used his own political clout to have her sent directly home, rather than to the D-District Prison with the rest of her friends.

She protested, in vain, and spent the next three years at home, under near constant surveillance, a personal military escort ferrying her between her father's mansion and her classes at the university. Finally, degree in hand, she found her opening. She applied for and received a job as an assistant librarian in Balamb, and slipped the shackles of her father's control, for good, this time.

She was nodding to herself, confidence renewed at the memory, when a voice from the other side of the hedge startled her.

"Heads up, out there!"

Rinoa jumped and looked up in time to see a tennis ball sail over the hedge, land a few feet in front of her, and bounce off the curb. Transferring her bags to one hand, she chased it down and picked it up, and considered throwing it back.

"Irvy!" A high-pitched woman's voice. "Again? What if you hit somebody?"

"I didn't hear anyone scream," a man –presumably, "Irvy" – responded.

"Still! That's the fourth one this afternoon. Now we're down to only two balls!"

"That's all a guy needs."

"Ugh, don't be gross! If you lose these, _you're _walking all the way back to the pro shop to buy us some more."

"Whatever you say, darlin'."

Rinoa looked at the ball in her hand. She could leave it on the curb and forget about it, or take it home as a toy for Angelo. She could throw it back over the hedge – but what if _she _hit somebody? Or, she could use it as an excuse to satisfy her curiosity and find out what this place, and who these people, were. 

There was no entrance to the courts along the sidewalk, and she hadn't seen any indication of one in the direction from which she'd come. She walked a bit farther and, at the next corner, a sign pointed her in the right direction.

_Balamb Gardens Tennis Club_, the sign read, with a large blue arrow pointing down the road, away from the busier street, to a building with tall windows and a walkway flanked by trees. 

"Welcome to Balamb Gardens!" A young man greeted her from behind the counter the moment she entered. Pleasant, but otherwise nondescript, the young man seemed incredibly eager to help her. "My name's Nida. How can I assist you today?"

"Oh, um … hello, Nida." Suddenly conscious of her shopping bags, and of the absurdity of returning an inexpensive tennis ball, Rinoa chuckled awkwardly. "My name is Rinoa, and I … um, just wanted to … to return this." She set the ball on the counter.

Nida looked at it for a moment, perplexed, before taking it. "Thank you, Ms. Rinoa! But, you know, you really didn't have to go to all that trouble. Our pro shop has plenty of balls. And rackets, and clothing, and every accessory you might need." His smile widened, and he made a sweeping gesture toward his left, and the entrance to the shop.

"I see."

"But since you've come all this way, Ms. Rinoa, could I interest you in a tour? Balamb Gardens is one of the finest athletic facilities on the island, and our competitive team came in first on the International Amateur Circuit two years ago."

"Two years ago? Who won last year?"

A shadow passed over Nida's face. "Galbadia. But don't worry, we're all set to bring the trophy back home. This year's team is our strongest yet! So, what do you say? Would you like a tour?"

"Okay, why not? Thank you, Nida!"

"It's my pleasure. Now, if you want, I can place your bags behind the counter, and we'll get started."

Nida began the tour immediately after securing Rinoa's belongings, chattering excitedly about the clubhouse – when it was built, what materials were used, the age and species of the trees lining the walkway – before leading Rinoa into the pro shop.

"As you can see, I wasn't exaggerating when I said we have everything you need. You could be on the courts in a jiffy, if you wanted to." 

She could. Rinoa looked around the shop, at the rackets lining one wall, at the racks of clothes and shelves of shoes, at the display case full of branded water bottles, headbands, wristbands, and bandages. String stabilizers in a variety of shapes and colors, visors, caps, socks, protein bars, and sports drinks. And, of course, tennis balls.

She felt an odd stirring in her chest, an emotion somewhere between nostalgia and indignation. The items around her were so familiar, they seemed to call to her. Calling her back to the court, challenging her to walk away. 

Or, were they challenging her to prove she could still play?

Whatever it meant, the feeling left her frowning at the merchandise, and Nida was quick to extol the quality of each item. He was halfway through reading the ingredient list on a protein bar, when his coworker walked in.

"Rinoa?" The voice was soft and timid, and Rinoa turned around to see Emmy, a part-time assistant at the library. Her dark hair pulled into a thin braid as always, she nonetheless looked very different in a polo shirt and pleated skirt, and it took Rinoa a few seconds to place her. "I didn't know you played tennis."

Rinoa smiled. "Hi, Emmy! No, I don't play. At least, I haven't played for a few years."

"Are you thinking of starting again? The club always welcomes new members."

"I'm not sure. I just came to return … something, and Nida offered a tour."

"Please consider it. It would be nice to have an extra bit of common ground with somebody at the library. The other librarians kind of intimidate me."

Rinoa nodded. For being so shy, Emmy certainly was honest. "I will. I'll have to see how it fits with my schedule, first, though."

Before Emmy could reply, the door to the courts opened, and a tall man breezed through. Rinoa glanced up at him and bit her lip to keep from laughing. He was lanky, his build accentuated by the polo shirt and shorts he wore, and his long hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. But what struck Rinoa as funny, what set him apart from every other tennis player she'd ever seen, was the large black cowboy hat sitting atop his head.

"Emmy," he shouted across the store, "you gotta help me! Sefie lost my balls." He laughed at his own double entendre and ambled to the counter. "She whacked 'em over the fence, after yellin' at me for doing the same thing! I think I'd better get three cans, this time."

While Emmy retrieved the tennis balls, Nida sputtered, his face bright red, the man's wordplay clearly not lost on him. He wagged a finger at the man.

"Mr. Kinneas," he said, "that is not proper pro shop etiquette! Where are your manners?"

"I dunno. Lost 'em with my balls, I guess." Mr. Kinneas laughed again, then turned around. His eyes widened when he saw Rinoa, and his mischievous grin grew wider. 

"Mr. Kinneas, _please_. We have a visitor."

"Yeah, and she's a cutie!" Mr. Kinneas tipped his hat. "The name's Irvine Kinneas. And what can I call you, Miss Visitor? Lovely? Sweetie? Mine, someday?"

Rinoa winced and leaned away from Irvine. Beside her, Nida scowled, and, behind the counter, Emmy shook her head and rolled her eyes. From their reactions, Rinoa assumed this kind of behavior must be normal for Irvine, and she straightened and faced him again.

"Rinoa," she said. "You can call me Rinoa."

"Rinoa. A pretty name for a pretty lady." Irvine jumped when Emmy banged the cans of tennis balls on the counter, and turned around to pay. Collecting the balls, Irvine tipped his hat once more. "See you around, Rinoa," he said, and left the shop.

Nida was all apologies. "Please excuse Mr. Kinneas," he said. "He is definitely _not_ representative of the clientele at Balamb Gardens. An outlier, if you will. But, he pays his dues, so here he is."

"You really don't have to worry about him, though," Emmy added, straightening a display of protein bars. "He's a terrible flirt, but he's actually quite harmless. Ignore him, and he'll move on to bother someone else."

"I see." Rinoa stared at the door Irvine had exited through, unsure whether to feel repulsed by his flirtation, or amused that he thought it would work. As long as he was as much of an outlier at Balamb Gardens as Nida claimed, he shouldn't be a problem. She could just avoid him, should she decide to return.

She turned to Nida with a smile, and watched his expression relax. "Well," she said, "shall we continue the tour?"

"Absolutely! Right this way, Ms. Rinoa."

The tennis complex was a good size, with fourteen courts arranged in two long rows, each row bookended with backboards for solo practice. Only a handful of the courts were in use at the moment, not surprising on a weekday evening, and most of the players seemed engaged in leisurely play, rather than competition.

But not all of them. At one of the courts farthest from the pro shop, a diminutive woman was shouting, high-pitched and breathless, and firing shots across the net in rapid succession. Only a few returned, and, as Rinoa approached, she recognized Irvine, doubled-over and staggering, at the other end of the court.

"Boy, Irvy, you're really out of shape," the woman said, sending another ball over the net and forcing Irvine into a full stretch to reach it, only to have the woman volley it back into the open court. "How do you expect to beat Galbadia if you can't even get anything past me?"

"It was having to walk to get more balls," Irvine said, leaning on his racket. "Sapped the rest of my energy."

"Excuses, excuses." Another barrage of tennis balls. "You just haven't been keeping up with your workout routine outside of here, am I right? What is it, this time? Too many parties? Too many _ladies_?"

"No. It's just –" Forehand. "—the Firearm Collector's Society –" Backhand. "—had a convention in town last week, and _ugh!_" Full-stretch forehand, sending up an awkward lob. "And I just had to – _yikes_!" Irvine spun out of the way of the woman's overhead smash. "Hey, watch it, Sefie! This face is valuable prop – oh, hey Rinoa! Came lookin' for me, huh? I _am _pretty irresista – _yah_!" He fended off Sefie's scalding forehand.

"Get over yourself, Irvy," Sefie said, then turned to investigate who he'd been talking to. "Hey, Nida! Did we get a new member?"

"Not yet," Nida answered. "I'm just giving her a tour. This is Rinoa."

"Pleased to meet you, Rinoa!" Sefie bounded to the fence, and stuck her hand through the links. "I'm Selphie, a doubles specialist on the competitive team. I see you've already met Irvy. I'm so sorry."

"I heard that!" Irvine shouted, massaging his shoulder.

"Anyway, it's always super exciting when somebody new joins the club. Have you played tennis long?"

"I played for nine years when I was younger," Rinoa replied. "Not competitively, though, and I haven't played for the past few years."

"Don't worry, it'll come right back to you! Hold on a second." Selphie raced to the gate and joined Rinoa on the other side of the fence, then held out her racket. "Here, show me what you remember."

"What?"

"Show me your forehand."

Rinoa stared at Selphie for a few moments, then laughed. "I feel so silly," she said, but assumed a ready stance nonetheless. She closed her eyes and remembered standing on the court at home. She shifted her weight to the balls of her feet and bounced lightly, recalling just how much fun it was to feel slightly weightless, to feel all her potential energy accumulating in her muscles, ready to explode with a perfectly-aimed shot. She opened her eyes, dropped one hand off the racket, and cut a graceful forehand stroke through the air, complete with follow-through.

Selphie applauded. "That's textbook form! Now, backhand … ooh, one-handed! Nice! Okay, now serve … super duper! All you need is some court time and ball control, and you're all set." She reclaimed her racket. "You gotta join the club, Rinoa! We'll have so much fun together. And I'll keep Irvy off your back."

Rinoa smiled. Selphie's excitement was contagious, her demeanor encouraging. Even as a competitive player, she saw tennis as _fun_, a word that Rinoa's previous instructors had apparently erased from their vocabularies. In this environment, Rinoa thought she might learn to love the sport. And, more importantly, in this environment, she might finally make some friends in Balamb. That was worth more than any membership fee.

"I'm really considering it," she said.

"Whoo-hoo!" Selphie jumped up and down. "Please do, Rinnie. You'll love it here, I promise." Selphie's eyes darted to the side and widened, and she began to wave. "That's Quisty," she said. "She's our number one ladies' singles player. Quisty! Over here!"

Rinoa looked over her shoulder and saw a blonde woman wave back and approach them. The woman glanced from Selphie to Rinoa to Nida and back.

"I see we have a new face," she said, smiling.

"Yep," Selphie answered, throwing an arm around Rinoa's shoulders. "This is Rinnie, our newest member. "

"Actually," Rinoa said, "it's Rinoa, and –"

"And she hasn’t agreed to anything yet!" Nida cut in. "I was simply giving Ms. Rinoa a tour of the facility –"

"But she's seriously considering joining," Selphie shouted over him. "She said so herself."

"'Seriously considering' is not the same as agreeing!"

Rinoa leaned out of the way as Selphie and Nida continued arguing, trying unsuccessfully to interject, and cast Quisty a sheepish grin. Irvine leaned against the fence and clicked his tongue.

"See what you miss, Quisty, when you come so late?" he asked, then crossed his arms and watched the unfolding scene.

Quisty did the same for a short while, before loudly clearing her throat to get Selphie and Nida's attention. "I'm sure you both made valid points, somewhere in all that shouting," she said, "but why not let Rinoa speak for herself?"

Selphie and Nida stopped squabbling and looked at Rinoa, expectantly. Rinoa chuckled.

"I hadn't planned on joining anything when I came here today," she said. From the corner of her eye, she saw Nida flash Selphie a smug grin. "I was just curious. But it definitely seems like a lively place, a place to meet new people and maybe make some friends. It seems like fun, and that's a word I haven't associated with tennis in a long time. So, I might as well give it a try! I'll join. I want to become a member of Balamb Gardens Tennis Club!"

"Yeah!" Selphie cheered, then jabbed a finger at Nida. "Booyaka, Nida! I was right!"

"Very well, Ms. Rinoa," Nida said, inching away from Selphie. "If you'll accompany me back to the clubhouse, we'll get you set up."

Quisty smiled and extended her hand. "Welcome to Balamb Gardens, Rinoa," she said. "I'm Quistis Trepe, and I'm an instructor for intermediate and advanced players. If you ever need help with your technique, just ask."

"Thank you," Rinoa replied, then turned to the others. "Thank you all."

"No problem," Irvine said. "Glad to have you with us. Gives me more chances to work on my charm."

Selphie laughed. "In your dreams, Irvy." She followed Rinoa to the clubhouse, chattering away about the optimal times to meet other players and scheduling a friendly practice session before they reached the pro shop.

Rinoa filled out the membership form, paid the first month's dues, and collected her shopping bags from behind the front counter. It wasn't until she was walking along the street again, in the golden light of sunset, that she realized what she'd done. She hadn't planned on meeting new friends this way; in fact, after she left home, she hadn't planned on ever picking up a racket again. That wayward ball that just missed her must have been a sign. It must have been fate.

She glanced at her watch and quickened her pace, knowing that Angelo was likely waiting at the apartment door, anxious for her dinner and evening walk. Still, even as Rinoa rounded the corner to her apartment building, the events of the day cut through the obligations in her mind, and excitement bubbled up in her chest, finding release in a giggle.

Yes, today must have been fate. And now, she was eager to see what else fate had in store. 


End file.
